Warhammer: A Reckoning Comes
by RoyalPsycho
Summary: As the End Times reached their climax, the fate of the world hung in the balance. In one telling of the story a single decision would damn the world to destruction. In another it would save it from the ultimate devastation. This is the story of the Warhammer World's survival, where the actions of its heroes saved it and a new tale began.
1. Chapter 1

**The Salvation Of The World:** **(Autumn 2528 Imperial Calendar)**

The ancient sphere finally splintered and collapsed in on itself as the damages wrought upon it by Archaon's sorcerers shattered the smooth veneer. A dark and terrible rift replaced the shiny skin of the former artefact and began to steadily expand with a dread and hungry certainty.

Howling winds ripped through the remains of the interior of the Fauschlag. The last few remaining mortal warriors were buffeted by the deluge whilst the remaining Daemons seemed to disintegrate. Their very essences were undone by the powerful gales that tore at their bodies and melted their physical forms. The last few remains of the forces of Chaos were carried into the dark empty void that was forming where the Old One artefact once stood. The stone floor ran as if it were water and the walls oozed unidentifiable slime as the warping powers of Chaos erupted from the ruined artefact. The entire mountain seemed to buck in protest at the forces that were being unleashed within it and the Incarnates struggled to remain upright even as their own fatigue struck them.

"Quickly," came the weary voice of the Archmage Teclis, "we do not have much time. The rift has already begun to expand, we must close it before it grows beyond control."

The exhausted Incarnates struggled to respond. All of them were drained by the battles they had fought, even Nagash, the Great Necromancer, seemed shrunken and lesser than he had been at the battle's beginning. Alarielle the Everqueen and Incarnate of Life, her innate connection to the Weave allowing her to feel the world's suffering, was the most pained of the small and rag-tag group. She struggled to stand as the Incarnates all wearily moved into a rough semi-circle that faced the rift.

"You must all channel your power out from the rift," Teclis shouted over the howling of the rift and the winds of magical power that swirled around them, his voice now little more than a strained croak, "it must be drained before it can sustain itself."

Guided by an instinct that few of them truly understood the six Incarnates reached out and grasped the Wind of Magic that they were each individually tied to. Unfathomable incantations began to fill the chamber as each Incarnate joined the Archmage in calming the winds.

Harnessing the supernatural energies that swirled around and within them the incarnates channelled their energies deep into the rift. Then, guided by Teclis' incantations, they drew the power out. With slow and exhausting steadiness the rift was diminished as the power that was forced into it and then ripped back out stole it's own energies in turn. With every heartbeat the Incarnates words matched one another's pace until they were all speaking with one voice.

Suddenly the ritual became strained as the wild and uncontrolled winds of Aqshy and Ghur began to disrupt the Incarnates' recitations. Desperate, Teclis grasped at the swirling power around him and his companions and harnessed them. Driving his staff into the ground as an anchor for the magical winds, he too began to channel the supernatural forces into himself. Unfortunately not even he, for all of his skill and strength, was unable to withstand the power of two Winds of Magic. His skin began to blister and burn as the arcane forces flowing through him began to tear his body apart. Still he continued to recite the various spells he knew would close the rift.

Terrible power still swirled throughout the chamber but slowly the winds began to calm. As Teclis' flesh burnt and stripped away the rift began to shrink. Slowly the edges of the unnatural hole in reality edged away from the Incarnates, collapsing in on itself as the power it needed to exist was drawn away. Teclis and the other Incarnates knew that even with their best efforts the rift was unlikely to close but still they continued, drawing on all of their strength as they saw the rift slowly creep shut.

* * *

Mannfred Von Carstein crept into the chamber beneath Middenheim. Entering the vast, crumbling cavern he saw a terrible sight. The Incarnates stood in a line around the great High Elven Archmage Teclis. They were all distracted by some ritual as every one of them glowed with barely contained power that they were all obviously struggling to hold onto.

However it was not the six demigods that held Mannfred's attention. Instead it was the frightening tear in the fabric of reality that the other inhabitants of the chamber were all facing. In an instant Mannfred realised what was going on. The sheer audacity of the Incarnates would have impressed him but he too was distracted by the terrible rift in front of him. Staring into it he saw the fate of all existence, a gaping maw that swallowed everything around it with insatiable hunger and lust.

Looking into the abyss he could hear the whispers of the Dark Gods. Like Kemmler, Harkon and countless others beings of death before him he could hear the promises they offered him. There were rewards beyond counting that awaited him if he served their cause, freedom from Nagash, power, possibly beyond measure, rule over lesser beings and the chance to fulfil himself for all eternity regardless of other being's desires. Every one of these voices caressed his mind sweetly, goading him to disrupt the ritual, steal their power, murder them. All it would take is the loss of one for the fate of the world to be sealed.

Each one of these possibilities enticed him. He had received little reward from his service to Nagash. In fact he had experienced one humiliation after another ever since Arkhan had offered him their alliance years ago.

However at the same time the final words of Vlad, his precursor and father-in-darkness, also drove him. He had decided, in his progenitor's final moments, to stand against Chaos at the side of the Incarnates. However as he had descended down into the Fauschlag and the voices in his mind had grown stronger and louder his resolve had gradually degraded. Now, as he stood on the precipice of fate, he did not know what to do. If he stood with the Incarnates all that awaited him was slavery and the dark attentions of Nagash. What's more his pride could not stand the idea of accepting the Incarnates as his equals, let alone his superiors. However, if he stood beside Chaos he would be immersed in madness and anarchy from which the order and control he wanted to build could never be realised. Now having seen the rift himself he was less certain than ever that the rewards of Chaos would outweigh the costs.

Torn between these two fates Mannfred wavered.

Suddenly Mannfred came to a realisation. He refused to aid Nagash or any of the mortal fools, however, he knew that to serve Chaos was to be a slave in a different fashion. He was Mannfred Von Carstein and he had always chosen the route that best served him. Neither option that awaited him was in his interest and so he decided to refuse both of them.

With a final look of derision at the Incarnates and a wary glance at the shrinking rift, Mannfred Von Carstein turned his back on the chamber and began to climb back up the Fauschlag's walls. He knew that the battle that was still ongoing outside the excavations would serve as a brilliant distraction for him to make his escape out of the ruins of Middenheim.

* * *

Teclis' face was drawn into a grimace of pain as the burning of his flesh and the strain of the two Winds of Magic he had harnessed tested his will to its limit. Still he continued his incantations, never once taking a breath as the ritual accelerated and reached its climax.

The rift was almost reaching the tipping point. In only a few heartbeats it would be too small and weak to recover and would collapse in on itself without their intervention, no longer able to draw power into itself.

His entire body felt as if it was engulfed in unbearable flames but not once did he let it interrupt him. These final moments were crucial. Every one of the Incarnates was flagging. The exhaustion of battle, combined with the strain of handling so much power was really beginning to tell. Every one of them was pale and gaunt. Even Nagash stooped as his immortal form experienced fatigue, a sensation that had been foreign to him for millennia. Alarielle appeared on the verge of collapse, Gelt, Malekith and Tyrion all swayed and teetered as if on the precipice of unconsciousness and even the Emperor was fighting to keep his stance.

Teclis could feel his flesh peeling off and his exposed bones blackening and turning to ash. Aqshy and Ghur were still affixed to his crumbling body but he could feel his magical grasp failing.

Suddenly there was an immense, unnatural shriek and the howling winds vanished in an instant. The rift shimmered and wavered, like a mirage in a desert, and then pulled at its own edges. In a matter of heartbeats that also seemed like an eternity the sphere of darkness dragged itself inwards, pulling unevenly at its own edge. Finally there was nothing left of the tear in the world, only the shattered fragments of the Old One Artefact that had been warped beyond recognition by the powers of Chaos. The only sound to penetrate the silence was a loud roar that rose from one of the tears in the cavern floor that quickly transformed into a pained shriek that then shrank into the depths of the Fauschlag.

Like puppets whose strings had been cut the inhabitants of the chamber all fell to the floor. Not a sound was made by each exhausted Incarnate as they were far beyond comprehending such trivial pain.

Teclis swayed for a moment, the pain flooding through his body too much for him to process. He made no cry of pain and simply fell to one side, collapsing onto the floor. His body had practically been reduced to a skeleton. His arms were stumps of bone, his chest had been stripped of flesh and his face was burnt beyond recognition. The rags of his former robes clung to him, parts of them fused to his tortured frame. Only the Staff of Lileath and the War Crown of Saphery were intact though even they had been pitted and blemished by the terrible forces their master had wielded. Only the thin wheezes emanating from the ruined and tortured creature that Teclis had become were any indicator that he was still alive.

Tyrion was the first of the Incarnates to rise to his feet. As he spent the least amount of time tied to a Wind of Magic the strain was reduced somewhat. Even then, the fatigue made his body feel like it was made of lead and every movement sent a lance of pain through his body. Still this did not stop him from limping over to the ruined husk that was Teclis the moment he laid eyes on the remains of his twin.

Teclis could not turn his head but he glanced at his brother as he approached. The stumps that were his arms wriggled slightly as he tried to lift them towards Tyrion. The prince bent down as he reached for Teclis. Carefully lifting Teclis' head and torso, Tyrion cradled his twin.

"I...it," Teclis stuttered as he struggled to speak from ruined lungs and a tortured throat, "it...it...is done."

"Yes brother," Tyrion replied heavily, knowing his brother's words were a statement rather than a question, "it is done."

It...wasn't...for nothing," Teclis said, his voice stronger, "the Rhana Dandra is...over." Tyrion could feel a hint of triumph in his brother's thin voice. "Tyrion," Teclis then said, one of his stumps moving for his brother's arm.

"I'm here brother," Tyrion anxiously replied, grabbing the stump in a firm grasp. Teclis winced as burnt flesh contacted with cold ithilmar.

"Tyrion," Teclis once again said, "can...can you forgive...me? For...Aliathra? For Malekith? For Khaine? For everything...I've...done?" Teclis' voice was barely a whisper by this point and his body was going limp in Tyrion's embrace.

Tyrion was stunned by the question. He had already offered his forgiveness to Teclis once, shortly after his own resurrection and redemption from Khaine with both Alarielle and Malekith as witnesses but he had never truly forgiven his brother. He knew that Teclis understood. Their bond that had existed from birth prevented them from lying to one another. Now at the end of all things his brother was once again asking for forgiveness, sincere forgiveness that only he could grant him.

"I," Tyrion began before pausing, feeling his brother weaken in his arms. Tyrion looked deep into himself as he pondered Teclis' request. Could he ever truly forgive him for what he had done. It took a heartbeat but Tyrion's conflict felt eternal. Finally after reflecting upon his feelings and the actions of his brother he turned to the ruin that was his twin.

"I forgive you," Tyrion said and with that a great weight was lifted from his heart. However at the same time he also felt an emptiness he had never experienced before. Tyrion turned to his brother and saw that he was dead. There was no rattling breath, no slight motion of burnt flesh nor any life or intelligence in Teclis' frozen eyes.

Tyrion continued to hold the remains of his brother close to him as the other Incarnates stirred. The first to awaken was Nagash. The Great Necromancer was the strongest of them and though he had been drained as much as the others his immense power flowed into his immortal body with speed. Still the destroyer of ancient Nehekhara was not foolish. He knew he was as weak as his mortal companions and were he to turn on them they would unite in an instant to smite him with whatever strength they had left to spare. Even if he won he could sense the battle that continued above them. He knew that was a fight he would not survive were he to waste what little power he had on the other Incarnates.

One by one the Incarnates pulled themselves to their feet. The chaos above needed to be dealt with and every one of them had plans for the world. Tyrion lifted the body of his twin, preparing to carry it back for a proper burial. Alarielle, still suffering from the damage to the Weave, struggled to carry her own weight. Tyrion tried to move to attend to her but his brother's body slowed him. To the surprise of anyone who noticed or was concerned it was Malekith who moved to carry the Everqueen, roughly wrapping his arm around her body. Gelt hobbled slightly but seemed to show the most vitality of the group, his mask helping to hide his grimaces of pain.

"Where is the Emperor?" Tyrion looked around the cavern as he noticed one of the Incarnates was not with the rest of the group. He finally found the Incarnate of the Heavens standing on the edge of the chasm that Archaon had fallen into. He was peering down into the darkness, an intense expression on his face.

"I would ask what you are trying to look at," Tyrion remarked as he ambled up to the Emperor's side, a wearily casual tone to his voice, "but I can guess."

"The Everchosen is gone," the Emperor said with a matter-of-fact tone. "It shouldn't be that simple." With that sense of finality the Emperor turned away to join the wary collection of Incarnates. Tyrion spared a glance over the edge of the chasm, pondering the fate of the Everchosen as well. There was a presence down in the darkness but he could not tell what it was. After a slight pause he then turned to join the others as well, carrying the remains of Teclis' body over his shoulder.

* * *

The exhausted Incarnates slowly made their way back up the passages out of the vast pit. Many of them eyed one another warily. Nagash led the group though eh did so unintentionally. The Great Necromancer was almost desperate to leave his former allies, though he refused to admit his concern, even to himself.

Behind him came the Emperor and Gelt. The two human Incarnates were weary but still ready for battle. The Emperor felt both the fatigue of his long and arduous battle and the revitalisation of victory and his recovery of Ghal Maraz at the same time. Both of them kept their eyes fixed firmly on Nagash, waiting for any sign of treachery. They did not know how weakened the Great Necromancer was but if he turned on them they would give everything they had to defeat him.

Finally, at the rear, came those who were burdened. Malekith stumbled forward, carrying and oft-times dragging Alarielle at his side. The pair were surrounded by a noticeable aura of distaste at the situation. To Malekith, the exhaustion and weakness he now felt was beyond infuriating. He didn't know exactly why he had decided to support the Everqueen but he knew he needed her still if he were to rule Athel Loren and he didn't dare leave her to be guarded by another. Tyrion, meanwhile, carried his twin's body in silence, occasionally glancing at his companions in front of him but mostly staying silent in his grief.

They finally made it to the lip of the pit to find the battle between the minions of Chaos and the remaining armies of the Incarnates was still raging. Elf, Man and Dwarf all fought viciously against the surviving Warriors of Chaos, Skaven and Beastmen. Though few had truly noticed, the vigour of the Deamons had waned and many were already fading away into their blasphemous realm.

As the passed over the lip and out of the pit they came across the remains of Nagash's Morghast Legions. The foul but regal constructs were strewn about the area, apparently having endured the brunt of the Everchosen's forces that had attempted to reinforce their master. Arkhan was standing behind a thin defensive line, his form battered and unsteady even as he tried to harness his flagging powers. Nagash did not move to recover the bodies that lay around him. He knew he needed to conserve what strength he had and thus he endured having to use his own power and blade alone to strike down his foes in the coming battle.

Around the remains of the Temple of Ulric and the immense opening in the plaza in front of it were the finest soldiers of the Hosts or Order. They had rallied around the pit, holding the line so that their lords did not have to endure enemies from above. The tattered but steadfast survivors of the Reiksguard fought at the front of the united host, their mounts long dead and their battered blades and armour stained black with the corrupted blood of their foes. The remains of the Elven armies had rallied around Malekith's Eternity Guard who fought with a brutal efficiency. The Throng of Metal were by far the fiercest fighters. Having planted their feet and locked their shields they had set about avenging every wrong the enemy had afflicted upon them over the course of the End Times, Gotri Hammerson at their head.

The six surviving Incarnates looked at one another and then at the carnage in front of them. Despite the sacrifices they had made this day the battle was not yet over. As if to prompt his companions, the Emperor raised Ghal Maraz and began to march forward to where his remaining knights struggled to hold the line. Still carrying their burdens and refusing to look at one another, both Tyrion and Malekith raised their blades in turn and strode out to the Elven battle-line. With a wary glance at Nagash, Balthasar Gelt straightened himself and walked towards the Throng he had found himself master of, changing direction slightly as he saw Quicksilver resting behind their battle-line. Finally Nagash made his way forward, drawing Zefet-nebtar and holding it high. He rarely had to fight with the Mortis Blade but now circumstances called for his direct intervention in combat.

With the Incarnates returning to the fray, the course of the battle changed very quickly.

* * *

The battle for Middenheim was short but arduous. The confused Chaos and Skaven forces scattered quickly but the losses the Incarnates and their armies had suffered were still horrendous. The final remnants of the Beast WAAAGH also left in scattered tribes as with Grimgor Ironhide's death the Orcs and Ogres found themselves bereft of unifying leadership. Each Incarnate went their separate ways shortly after the battle's end. Nagash was the first to leave, disappearing before any of the other Incarnates could even consider some way of slowing or weakening him. With his departure, the dead once again fell and returned to their rest. Tyrion, Malekith and Alarielle eventually left, heading in the direction of Athel Loren with what was left of their armies, intent on rebuilding the kingdom. The Emperor did not leave at first. Instead he stood over the ruins of Middenheim and pondered the future. The empire he had built long ago was a ruin but there were survivors. He could rebuild but it would be arduous, Chaos had spread deep into the lands he had ruled and it would require blood and toil to cleanse them. Balthasar Gelt stood beside him, prepared to stand beside the lord he served no matter what. His guilt still drove him but it had now been joined by a renewed optimism that victory had given him.

With the battle over the world changed once again.

* * *

The effect of the closing of the rift was not felt instantaneously. However it took only a few seconds for the Winds of Magic to begin to ebb once again. The power of Chaos waned as the Winds of Magic calmed. To the Daemons that now roamed the world the change was far too abrupt. What started as slight weakening of their power quickly turned into the rapid and irreversible disintegration of their physical forms. The Daemonic Legions vanished.

The followers of Chaos were the next to feel the change in the Winds of Magic. The blasphemous power that had invigorated them since the beginning of the End Times was stolen from them. Suddenly weakened the confused worshippers of the Dark Gods were forced back by the surviving forces of order.

In Skavenblight the Verminlords were consumed by the very shadows they lurked within and returned to the realm they had originated from. Bereft of their patronage the various warlords quickly fell to recriminating one another. Assassination attempts beyond count took place, enriching Clan Eshin more than ever before. Grey Seer Thanquol was especially troubled since, as much as he hated to admit it, his new position on the Council of Thirteen was almost completely a result of Skreech Verminking's support. Now that the Verminlord was gone and as difficult to summon as Verminlords had always been before the End Times, he was concerned. He never let it show of course and simply returned to his usual posturing. Meanwhile the Under Empire turned on itself as the balance of power shifted dramatically once again.

* * *

In a realm beyond comprehension four beings argued with one another. A plan that had been prepared for eternities beyond count had been ruined. Argument turned to recrimination and blame and soon they turned on one another. The loose alliance that had almost led the world to ruin was over and the Realm of Chaos returned to what it had always been. Each god returned to their specific realm to ponder their failure and exercise their rage on anything hapless and unfortunate enough to catch their attention.

Khorne tore his own realm apart as he raged, his carnage spilling over into the realms of his brothers. His defeat was humiliating even though the slaughter had pleased and empowered him. His armies were in chaos as he punished and demoted those who had failed him but the world now presented completely new chances for slaughter and war.

Tzeentch's thoughts fermented and stewed as he contemplated what had happened. His failure was humiliating in a way that no mortal being could comprehend. However the phyrric victory that the forces of order had won now presented countless new possibilities. The world had changed and become interesting again and it was up to him to exploit it.

Nurgle wandered through his gardens, his thoughts disturbed by the results of the failed End Times. The theft of his prized Poxofulcrum infuriated him as much as the prospect of defeat did for Khorne. Out of all of his brother gods he felt like he had lost the most. However he was, at heart, a worker and tinkerer. The chance to experiment was still too strong for him to ignore and he turned his attention back to the prospect of concocting new contagions to inflict upon the mortal world.

Slaanesh was the most torn of the Dark Gods. He was furious that his followers had failed him in such a boring and unfulfilled fashion. Many of them had been punished in manners that prevented even the most pleasure addled Daemon from enjoying the experience. However another part was relieved for he held the mortal world in some regard and he enthusiastically contemplated the many possibilities and experiences the world would continue to present.


	2. Chapter 2

**The New World Awaits:**

 **The Ruins of Middenheim: (Autumn 2528 Imperial Calendar)**

Middenheim was a shattered shell of a city. Its walls were broken, its many buildings had been torn down and its once ordered districts were disarrayed and strewn with the wreckage of battle and despoilment. The once majestic Temple of Ulric was practically destroyed, the immense crater that led down into the Fauschlag dominating what had once been one of the most majestic buildings in the mountain-top city.

The foul symbols of Chaos and the banners of a thousand tribes adorned everything alongside the offal choked piles of refuse and waste that the occupying northman tribes had strewn everywhere. However what was most common were the bodies. The corpses of soldiers from across the Old World and beyond could be found everywhere. Some were the long mutilated bodies of the original defenders and inhabitants of Middenheim who had been butchered by Archaon's assault. Others were the minions of Chaos who had fallen as the Everchosen's army began to destroy itself through boredom and indolence. The freshest were those who had died, either in the service of Order or Chaos, in the recent battle for the city and the fate of the world.

Sigmar looked over the city and let the sorrow of the past few years finally catch up with him, with the world no longer teetering over the brink of oblivion he could finally let his thoughts rest and wander. He refused to let his moment of melancholy show on his face, knowing that the survivors of his army still depended on him to be their anchor in a ruined world. Still to see one of the finest cities in his empire, a fortress that had impressed him in his youth and one that he had fought hard to defend against another chosen warlord of Chaos, humbled and desecrated was difficult for him.

He sat on the top of the flight of stairs that had once led into the Temple of Ulric, Ghal Maraz balanced on his knees. His hammer seemed to shiver with power, as if it was happy to be held in his hands once more. He smiled as he clutched his familiar weapon tighter. The power of Azyr, the magic of the heavens, flowed his body more strongly than ever before. For the first time in millennia he felt whole once again and without the constant fighting he could feel the magic within his body regenerating, filling his body with the energy of the storm and the stars.

Not far from the Ulricsmund, the last of his followers were trying to erect a camp. The city had been purged of enemies and though his former allies had left immediately afterwards, Sigmar had decided that his men needed a rest, even if it were in the remains of Middenheim. They would get one night to recuperate and then they would leave as soon as possible.

Men and Dwarfs erected crude shelters for themselves and their equipment, the Dwarfs often berating their human comrades for the shoddiness of their work.

So many of his men had died in his battle. Too few of the Empire's brave soldiers remained and the fight for the world had reduced their ranks even further. What's more, Sigmar knew that this battle wouldn't truly be the end. His lands were infested with the minions of Chaos. Beastmen, traitors, mutants, northmen and worse now stalked the lands he had once ruled over. The empire he had built had been torn down, reduced to ashes and desecrated in the most terrible fashions. He had said that nothing remained of the lands he was responsible for and a part of him had been telling the truth. The provinces had been broken, the fortresses had been toppled and the cities had been ruined.

Still it was not the end. Sigmar, pushed aside the thoughts of sorrow and despair and replaced them with ones of hope. Not all of his people had died or given in to the darkness. He could, and he would, rebuild. He would reforge the Empire and this time, with the powers he now possessed, it would be stronger than ever before.

He looked up to the sky, glad to see the tortured weather that had once stained it was gone. The wisps of Daemonic faces were gone and the off-colour storms were gone in their entirety. It was night and the stars shone brightly in the cloudless sky. The only thing that marred the beauty of the sky were the scattered fragments of Morrsleib. Though large portions of the fractured Chaos moon had fallen down onto the world most of it remained in the sky. Already the chunks of warpstone and worse were coalescing into a splayed chain of corrupt rock. Something that Sigmar could not truly describe seemed to be nestled in the centre of the mass of gargantuan warpstone fragments, something that was writhing and pulsing and seemed to squirm in his direction after his eyes fell upon it.

Sigmar turned away from the remains of the broken moon, his eyes stinging from daring to look into the cursed green light. The broken state of what had been a constant in history since both records and songs began was yet another sign of just how drastically the world had changed. Not only was one of the moon's shattered but the stars did not look right. The familiar constellations were gone, or in the wrong position and new stars had emerged to replace them.

Something irreversible had happened out beyond the world and Sigmar could feel it through his connection to Azyr. The influence of the Chaos Gods had extended away from the world and out into the heavens. However, like the world that lay beneath them, the stars had survived.

"What do you see?" a tired voice asked.

Sigmar turned to see Balthasar Gelt walking up to him. The Incarnate of Metal looked worn and though his face was hidden behind his, now tarnished, golden mask, his body revealed just how exhausted he truly was.

"Hope," Sigmar replied, still looking at the twinkling lights that lay beyond the sickly green pieces of Moorsleib.

"Hope?" Gelt questioned. The wizard eased himself down onto the cracked stone steps that Sigmar was sitting upon, letting out several grunts as his weariness caused his body to ache.

"Yes hope," Sigmar replied. "The stars are shining again and the sky is clear."

"It is good to be free of those infernal clouds," Gelt said as he looked up to the sky. "The stars are unfamiliar," he said offhandedly after a pause.

"They are," Sigmar said. "Something has happened out there just as it did here. Yet the stars still shine bright and pure." Sigmar turned to Gelt with a small smile on his lips. "It's a sign my friend. Even if the heavens have been changed by the End Times they have not been completely destroyed. There is hope that we can recover from these trails."

Gelt hummed in agreement. The two of them sat quietly, looking to the sky, ignoring the remains of the Chaos Moon as they sat and thought of the future. All of them had fought without real concern for what would happen and what they would do if they did in fat succeed. Now a new future lay before them, with all of its trails and possibilities.

* * *

Gotri Hammerson glowered as he watched the humans erect their simple tents. In the last few months he had come to appreciate some men, actually giving his, often begrudging, respect to select men as he fought beside them in the final battle for the world. Still there were just some things about the manlings that irritated him and foremost amongst them was their complete lack of ability and care when it came to building things.

Whilst the degradations of Chaos and battle were partially responsible for the poor quality of the ruined building they were currently sheltering, in was obvious that the manling brickwork was, by itself, shoddy and weak. All it took was one glance for Gotri to see the countless flaws in the construction of the ruin. In better days he wouldn't have been caught dead under such a building but these weren't those days.

After the battle had finally ended the Zhufbarak had finally felt their fatigue catch up with them. Of course they did not let it show to their manling allies and instead picked themselves up and worked to establish some kind of workable shelter. He had not agreed with the Emperor or Gelt when they said they would spend a night in the ruins of Middenheim but he had been overruled and had decided to go along with the two leader's command. He didn't like the shell that Middenheim had become. The stench of Chaos still clung to it and there was always the chance that some straggler or backstabber would try to strike them while they slept.

Guard details had been organised and already those men and Dawi that were not needed for any duties were already lying or sitting down and grabbing their rest. Most fell asleep instantly but they looked restless and troubled.

"It was a bad idea to stay here," Gotri muttered to himself. Whatever lingered in this place was bound to affect them, maybe not in a dramatic fashion but a sleeping mind was a vulnerable one and he knew that manlings were especially weak in those circumstances. He didn't want to see any of them fall to inescapable madness just after winning the most terrible battle since the days of the Ancestor Gods.

He turned and looked out of the ruined Ulricsmund. A scattering of crude tents, made out of whatever relatively unsoiled cloth could be held up by spear hafts and spare lumber, was being erected. The manling knights had lost all of their horses – and good thing they did too as they were an unnecessary hassle to look after – and were instead setting their spare equipment under the tarps they had set up. Like the Dawi of the Zhufbarak no-one was actually taking off their armour or leaving their weapons more than a hands-length away from them.

Fires were being lit though whoever was in charge had been smart enough not to post any in front of the sentries. Even he could agree that light was needed in this cursed place but only a fool would intentionally ruin their watchmen's night vision by lighting a flame in their faces.

A couple of men, mostly the militia and flagellants that had tagged along, were scavenging whatever useful rubbish they could find from the rest of the city. Gotri didn't approve of grubbing through the dirt for scraps but he thought it better the manlings do it than any of his lads.

Gotri turned back to the ruined buildings of the street to find the warriors of the Zhufbarak setting up tents for themselves. Though they were reduced to using flimsy manling cloth and brick to make their shelters they were setting about it in the methodical and efficient manner that every Dawi exhibited in any task. Though their shelters were simple by Dawi standards, they were far above the simple raised cloth sheets of the manlings. Bricks were being set up into serried and sturdy walls that the sheets were then laid over and trapped beneath another set of bricks, holding it in place. The arrangement was simple but provided the Dawi lying under it with good, solid walls to lie within.

Gotri went over to one of the brick structures that he had built for himself. It was small and wretched but it would do for a single night. He sat beside it and pulled out a pipe, fumbling among his belt to see if he had an pipe-weed for it. Finding a pinch of it, he stuffed it into the pipe and brought out a small device filled with oil and capped by a flint trigger. He pulled the trigger and lit the top of the device, lowering it into the pipe and lighting the contents.

He drew in a long breath and exhaled smoke, feeling somewhat relaxed. He saw several of his kin were already settling down for a little rest, still keeping their true exhaustion from showing, even to one another.

One of the Ironbreakers, a young Dawi, barely more than a beardling, that he had learnt was named Thagri Borrinsson, looked at him almost quizzically.

"So what do you suppose we do now?" the Ironbreaker asked suddenly.

"We stay with the manlings lad," Gotri answered. He had been expecting the question for some time now. With the battle over and the world calm for the first time in years, the question of what they would do now had been lingering in his mind for a while.

He watched Thagri and his kinsmen nod in acceptance and get back to their own devices but the uncertainty persisted. Gotri himself was surprised at how he felt about the future. Zhufbar was gone, there was no home to return to and yet the Zhufbarak had not lost enough to take the Slayer oath. What's more Karak Kadrin and the sacred sites of the Slayer Cult had been lost as well. Though the shrines at Karak Kadrin were not necessarily needed for a Slayer's oath to be accepted but the loss of such traditions was difficult.

There was also the uncertainty of whether any other holds had survived. Karaz-A-Karak had been under siege when Ungrim Ironfist had called them to go west to Averheim and all the other Karaks and outposts had fallen beforehand. It was possible that the Zhufbarak were the last of the Dawi race and that the mountains their race had called home were now completely infested with Grobi and Thagorakki.

They could go to find survivors, seek out the old holds and see whether or not their kin had survived and by rights they should. However, the manling Gelt made things difficult. The wizard, despite his distasteful vocation and his questionable history, had been blessed by the Ancestor Gods. He had fought beside them and had never abandoned them unless his duty called him to do so. This bizarre chain of events had made things difficult for the Runesmith and now that the battle had calmed down – for it would never truly end – he had time to ponder what it meant. He had decided, even if the Zhufbarak left, to stay with the wizard and see what the blessings upon him meant.

* * *

Hermann Schreiber silently cursed whatever insanity had led to him crouching through the tunnels beneath the city. He had been about to bed down for the night when he had spotted the rest of the remaining Free Companies – not that the rank meant anything anymore – leaving the camp to root through the ruins.

He had done the same but found little that actually looked worthwhile and so he had made his way across the Ulricsmund. Eventually he had wound up in front of the hole that led deep into the Fauschlag. Now he was slowly creeping through the dark paths, a torch in hand, searching to see whether the site of the final battle could give something up to him. He had no idea what had been going through his head as he did this after what felt like an eternity of wandering down the tunnels. Despite the total silence of the cavernous corridors he was jumping at every possible sound. By now the hammering of his heart was the most terrifying sound he could hear.

Still he kept on going, a strange little thought fluttering in the back of his head driving him forward. Though he could never identify the idea that was compelling him to climb down into the mountain's depths, it was surprisingly forceful as it urged him down.

After another eternity of walking and crouching, he came out of the tunnels into a vast, broken cavern. Here the floor, walls and ceiling, were slick and glass-like, as if they had been melted and then frozen. As the light of the torch washed over the immense opening, he found great rents everywhere that led down into the black depths. Hermann still went on, as if he was in a trance yet also aware that he was being compelled by something. By now he was terrified and yet his legs continued moving.

It happened in an instant. One moment Hermann was carefully making his way around one of the chasms torn into the floor and then he heard a crunch and his boot slid for a moment. Righting himself, he looked down and saw he had stepped on what looked, to his eyes, like an ice crystal. He leaned down to peer at it, trying to see whether it really was a small shard of ice like he thought it was.

Suddenly, a frosted mist shot out of the spot where the ice had been lying and thrust out at him. For a moment that felt like another eternity, Hermann was surrounded by a blizzard, the sound of howling wolves echoing in the distance. The cold washed over him and slid into his body, hungrily forcing its way into him. Then, as quickly as it came, it ended. The howling slowly dissipated as it echoed off further into the cavern, the cold bled away from his body and the frost was gone. Hermann was breathing heavily from the shock of what had just happened. He immediately looked down at his feet to see if the ice crystal was still there and saw nothing.

Hermann shook his head and looked back and forth throughout the cavern, trying to see if whatever had leapt out at him was still there. His attempts brought up nothing and Hermann quickly found that the only sound in the cavern was his own panicked breathing. The strange urge was gone as well and now he felt terrified at the thought of staying in the cavern. As he looked beyond the cavern he saw the edge of a great gaping hole that stung his eyes to look upon. The shadows seemed to creep at him, pushing at the edge of the illumination his torch provided.

Hermann turned and ran back to the entrance into the cavern and scrambled for the tunnels hat led back up to the city. He regretted ever coming down into the Fauschlag and wanted nothing more than to escape, t get back into the open air and find his comrades.

* * *

Sigmar looked up as he felt something below him. Something had moved deep beneath the city, within the tunnels he had spent the day battling the forces of darkness. He smiled as eh recognised the cold, predatory power.

"So the wolf truly doesn't let go once it sinks it's teeth in," Sigmar said quietly to himself with a chuckle.

* * *

The first thing she remembered waking up to was a leering skull dressed in rich yet ragged robes. It had taken a quick and disorienting moment for Isabella Von Carstein to recognise Arkhan the Black. They had spent a long time staring at one another as the battle raged around them. Neither looked sure of what they would or even could do to one another. Then Arkhan had left, taking the remains of his armies with him as the remnants of the forces of Order rallied around the chasm into the Fauschlag.

Isabella had crawled away after that, her mind still reeling from her resurrection. She remembered everything that had happened but the presence of Bolorog in her mind had scrambled what she was aware of. Now that he was gone, everything she knew and felt was confused and jumbled up. There was still a remnant of the Nurgle Daemon's taint in her mind that drove her to distraction and so she merely wandered through the anarchy as the city bucked underneath her. Finally she curled up in one of the ruins and waited as the noise of battle to died down and disappeared.

Through the shattered roof and walls, Isabella saw the skies clear of the warpstorms that had glowered overhead. Now it was night and the corner of the city she lay in was quiet, the only noises very distant from her.

Her mind still a confused whirl of thoughts, memories and emotions, Isabella climbed out of the shattered building a stepped out into the street. Her armour was rent and what little clothing had been attached to it was tattered and ruined. Her hair was strewn across her face and the grime of battle and the ruined city covered her completely. She was unsteady even as she walked down the street and struggled to stay upright. She slowly teetered her way out of the street and made her way over to the outer walls.

Grimacing as she walked, Isabella finally made it through the thick piles of bodies to one of the viaducts. Most of the bodies strewn about the gateway were those of the forces of Chaos. Many were those who had drawn the ire of the Everchosen and his closest followers and had been executed for it. Others were those who died in the rout from the city after the armies of Chaos were defeated. There were also bodies of Skaven, Greenskins and Ogres that had also fallen as they fled or died in combat in the final stages of the battle.

Ignoring the carnage around her, Isabella picked her way down to the viaduct that led down to the forest beneath her. She needed to feed but she couldn't go for the survivors huddled near the city centre. She was too weak to attract attention from such a large and well armed group. She also refused to even consider feeding off the corpses around her. Drinking the congealed blood of the dead led only to bestial madness.

She walked down the viaduct, keeping her eye on the shattered and twisted forest below. She was away from her foes, Chaos' hold over her was broken and she had no idea what she should do. All she could feel was a vague sensation drawing her south and east from the wrecked city, something that called to her and demanded she go before it. With her mind still rattled and confused she followed the call of the bizarre sensation, reaching the bottom of the viaduct and moving into the forest. As she walked, her thoughts began to settle a little. She could pick out some of the events of the past but they were still in no discernible order.

"Vlad," she mumbled as she pulled herself through the warped foliage. She needed to find Vlad and if she couldn't she needed to find a way to bring him back to her. No matter what happened and where she was there had always been one thing to keep her steered in the right direction. She needed to find her husband, then the world would start to make sense and together they would bring it to its knees.

* * *

The morning found the Host of the Heavens and the Throng of Metal already preparing to go. Few had slept well, their dreams haunted by the disturbing corruption that still lingered over the ruined city and cursed mountain. The Fauschlag, once the seat of Ulric's power and the heart of one of the mightiest provinces of the Empire, was now a haunted ruin, like Praag had been. Some wondered whether men would ever dare to resettle it like that long shattered Kislevite city had been. Few were optimistic enough to really ponder the possibility.

Sigmar stood at the head of the Reiksguard column. The sad survivors of those who had not accompanied him into the Fauschlag, the knights wore battered and rent armour and were covered in dirt and blood. Their horses had fallen in battle and so every one of them was on foot with what equipment they could carry. Behind them was the sorry collection of State Troops, flagellants and armed survivors. Their attempts to form cohesive units were laudable and the staunch discipline many of them tried to show through their fatigue was to be commended. Sigmar felt proud to be their leader even if they were a shadow of the army they were only a few years ago.

Lined up beside them, standing behind Balthasar Gelt who was once again seated upon his pegasus Quicksilver, were the disciplined lines of the Zhufbarak. By now there were very few Dwarfs left that didn't wear the thick gromril armour of the Ironbreakers and the Hammerer elite. They stood in almost perfect silence, their grim expressions unchanged as they waited for their human companions to finish preparing.

Not all them men and Dwarfs had been put in formation. Many of them had been put in charge of the impromptu baggage train they had made. Supplies had been scavenged and carefully judged to see whether or not they would be dangerous to consume. The wounded had also had wagons and stretchers made for them but there were no horses to bear their weight. It was the duty of those picked to man the baggage train that would carry them.

Their preparations were almost complete. The decision to leave Middenheim had been unchallenged though where they would go was more difficult. Every city had fallen and every known fortress was lost. The possibility of seeking out the traditional safe havens of the Empire was not an option.

Sigmar, Gelt, Hammerson and the surviving captains of both hosts had spent the early hours of the morning planning where their next destination would be. They had finally decided that they would set up the foundation of their new stronghold on the banks of the southern River Talabec. The forests were not safe but the lowlands beyond had been overrun by the Beastmen that the Everchosen had left behind. With the river nearby they would be able to use it to travel further afield. There had to be other survivors and of there were they would aid them. In these dark times the remaining men of the Empire would have to stand together and though the End Times had shattered their lands and scattered them, Sigmar was confident that his people would remember their bonds.

Long ago man and Dwarf had stood beside one another and fought a battle that would decide the fate of nations. From that great battle a nation had been forged and a bond had been made that, even to this day, had not been broken. They had done it before and Sigmar was sure they could do it again.

Sigmar stepped to the front of the small army he ultimately commanded and looked at them. He saw every weary face that looked back at him in awe. Only the day before he had been not so different from them. Though once he had wielded god-like powers he had once again been reduced down to their level. Now he was every inch the god reborn that they had claimed he was. Sigmar found it slightly ironic that the men that followed him believed him their old emperor imbued with their god's power. They were still unaware that Sigmar was in fact standing before them now, living within the skin of Karl Franz.

"Men of the Empire!" Sigmar boomed, grabbing the attention of everyone, "Sons of the Karaz Ankor! You have all bled for this world, for this day where you stood triumphant. In these dark times you have all lost so much. Homes, families, livelihoods, nations and ancient heritages have all been cruelly ripped from you by the most vile of beasts." the two armies now looked grim, stoicism masking their anger and sorrow.

"Many said that this was the beginning of the end of the days, the terrible End Times that would herald the destruction of the world. Too many succumbed to such ideas and fell to despair and yet so many others stood against the tide of darkness and desecration." Despite his own weariness, Sigmar held himself tall and thrust his chest out. "We stood before the endless hordes of the Three Eyed King and broke them, as a rock breaks the waves of the sea in a storm. We proved those who thought that the only path before them was the one that led to damnation were wrong. We believed that a new day would dawn and that we would be standing to see it."

Sigmar held his hammer up to the sky, pointing it at the bright autumnal sun. "See that?" he roared, "The sun is shining. It is a new day, our day! We have passed these great trials and a new world awaits us, one in which we can reclaim and rebuild all that the scions of the Dark Gods took from us. They have broken their blades on us and we have grown stronger for it. The time has come sons of Sigmar and Grungni, of Taal and Grimnir, of Shallya and Valaya, to retake these lands from the foul beasts that would think we are broken beyond repair. It is time to claim this new world and make it greater and brighter than it was before. It is the time to fight and know that we will see victory. I swear this to you, as your emperor."

The men all burst into cheers, their own fatigue washing away at their emperor's words. The Dwarfs voiced their own approval though their was far more reserved. Sigmar knew he had gotten to them all. The time for mourning was over, they all needed to remember the world that awaited them beyond Middenheim's walls.

"Now forward men," Sigmar commanded as he turned in the direction of the gate that led to one of the viaducts. "It is time to retake our birthright."

As one the army marched forward, picking up speed as they set into their pace. They were all exhausted but a bizarre restlessness had now entered their bodies. There was an electricity in the air that drove them onwards. Their emperor had give them hope and so they would fight for it. There was a new world out there that they were marching towards and they were prepared to fight for it.


	3. Chapter 3

**The Ruins Of The Woods:**

 **The Drakwald, along the Old Forest Road: (Autumn 2528 Imperial Calendar)**

The column slowly made its way along the debris entangled remains of the Old Forest Road. The massive avenue through the tangled woods had been ravaged like everything else and was now missing flagstones and had hungry vegetation scattered about it. The forest was already encroaching on the sides of the road and the trees loomed overhead. Men and Dwarfs had been sent ahead of the column to clear away the worst of the debris and make a path for the army.

Everyone was on edge as they watched the shadows between the trees. They had encountered a few small Beastman warbands and the occasional tribe of scattered Northmen but, on the whole, their journey had not been as harrowing as many of them had expected. Rest was still sparse and uneasy as every member of the column knew there were no safe havens in the forest. They had come across several old manors and fortified inns that had long since been destroyed. Even several bandit hideouts that their scouts had come across had been burnt out and ravaged by the followers of Chaos. Now, with the followers of Chaos displaced or largely wiped out due to the conflicts of the End Times, the forest was unnervingly quiet.

They had been marching for nearly a week and had made good time, desperation forcing them to move as quickly as possible. Still their lack of draft animals, their weariness and their concern over the possible threats that lay in the woods slowed them down. Some of the men, usually the scouts, had gone into the woods to try to forage for food to supplement their shrinking supplies. Unfortunately the rampage of the Beastmen and the plagues of Nurgle the year before had killed most of the game in the Drakwald. Still the huntsmen kept trying and the occasional untainted deer was found and killed but they were rare and the meat was carefully rationed.

None of the men, despite their increasing exhaustion and disgruntlement, refused to abandon their emperor's army. Not only was their nowhere they could run to but their flagging loyalty would also be reaffirmed whenever they saw the figure of Sigmar at their head.

Sigmar hoped to reach the city of Krudenwald. Since his return to the mortal world he had tried to learn as much about the modern Empire as he could, supplementing his discoveries with the knowledge he had learnt over the centuries he had been watching the world from within the Wind of Azyr. He expected Krudenwald to be a ruin, like every other settlement in the north but, assuming it was not irreparably corrupted or infested with mutants and Beastmen, they could make a more fortified and secure camp. Still, at the pace they were going, it would be a very long time until they reached where Krudenwald had stood.

Still the column marched on, steadfast in their determination. If at least this much of the road had survived in the depths of the Chaos warped woodland then other remains of man's accomplishments must have lasted the trails of the End Times as we. Krudenwald was likely gone but something of use would still be standing, something they would be able to shelter within.

* * *

Sigmar was, once again deep in thought as he marched at the head of the noble force of Men and Dwarfs. After several days with no distractions, he had finally been able to turn his thoughts to the magical powers that were now a part of his very being. Despite the months of practise he had before and during the siege of Averheim and the weeks since then, the powers of Azyr were still something of a mystery to him. Every time he unleashed them it was on instinct. It wasn't the fluid and controlled spellwork that more practised Incarnates like Gelt, Malekith, Alarielle and Nagash had unleashed, his powers were used not unlike the former Incarnate of Beasts, a bludgeon designed to hammer the enemy with raw power.

Whilst he had followed the road east he had also kept himself busy trying to understand the magical wind that was bound to him. Many hours had been spent trying to feel out the powers of the heavens while h walked. He had not dared openly experiment with the magic as he didn't want to risk spooking his men. Still he had been able to grasp some of the potential his abilities gave him. He was able to see slight wisps of the knowledge that Azyr could grant him. It seemed only Gelt was aware of what he was doing as every now and then the alchemist would glance at him, his thoughts unfathomable as he still kept his face hidden behind the tarnished gold mask.

Hours passed in relative silence as Sigmar tried to reach out further, grasping for the magical power of the stars. He knew that the Celestial Wizards of the now destroyed Imperial Colleges were able to vaguely discern the future with their powers. Though such abilities were still beyond him, Sigmar tried to work his way to understanding the messages written in the stars, fumbling through the ways of Azyr on instinct.

It took the words of a scout to finally return his attention to the world around him and even then the scout had to repeat his words.

"What did you say?" Sigmar asked.

"About a league down the road," the young man dressed in the ragged wear of a militia huntsmen said. "There's an old manor. Looks like it belonged to someone important because its really big and the walls still standing in most places. It should be big enough for the lot of us to bed down in."

Sigmar dismissed the scout and settled down to ponder what he had just been had told. The column continued on down the road towards the site the scout had informed him about but Sigmar spent much of the time considering whether or not it was wise to make camp at it.

Finally, as they approached the ruin, he made his decision.

"Men," he called out, his strong voice carrying over the column. "There is a manor ahead of us. We will be bedding down there for the night."

A weary sigh of relief echoed from the column. The Men seemed to visibly sag at the prospect of rest whilst the Dwarfs remained much more stoic by comparison. Still Sigmar was sure the doughty warriors were also grateful for the prospect of camping in a somewhat more secure location.

It took another ten minutes for whatever ruin the scout had noticed to come into view. Removed from the Old Forest Road was a large enclosure. A large stone wall surrounded the remains of a large fortified house. It was clear, from the thick vegetation that once again pushed up close to the walls and the massive rents in the stonework, that the afflictions that had struck most of the Empire when the Glottkin invaded had been what laid this structure low. The manor itself was missing its roof, blackened beams sticking out of the partially shattered walls, and soot stained the walls, likely from raids that had taken place after the daemonic vegetation had been cleared.

"We'll make camp within the walls," Sigmar said as his men filed towards it. The foremost ranks had their halberds lowered, ready to defend themselves against whatever might still lurk within the remains of the building. "I want this cleared and ready for tents to be pitched. Other teams will secure the walls and set up a watch."

Sigmar then turned to Gotri Hammerson. "I would like you and your kin to see to suring up these walls. I'm sure you would be masterful at ensuring we are well guarded."

Gotri gave a grunt in affirmation and ordered his own contingent to follow after the Imperial soldiers.

The next few hours were tense as the men and Dwarfs filed into the specious courtyard of the old manor. It was clear the enclosure had been built to accommodate a large family and staff as it managed to easily hold the entire column and whatever supplies they had been able to carry with them. Immediately work began to clear debris, build barricades and set up tents. The Dwarfs worked meticulously at patching up the holes in the outer wall. Men, under the instruction of gruff Dwarf foremen, hauled stone into position and helped set up stakes and other obstacles to help fill the gaps in their defences. Sentries were posted as well, peering into the thick, hostile woods as they watched over the work-teams.

As the men worked Sigmar walked among them, giving the occasional words of encouragement and even stepping in to offer aid whenever possible. The lengths their emperor was willing to go amazed many of his men and spirits that had been slowly worn down by the endless monotony of the march were raised once again.

The vegetation that had invaded the grounds of the manor were also being cleared. There were no obvious signs of mutation that could be found but the men were still wary of the thick growth that had penetrated the walls.

The men sent to search the ruins of the manor returned untouched, reporting only of a few areas of the building that were unstable. They were quickly reassigned to other duties, reinforcing the defences, setting up shelters and taking sentry positions. It took several hours but eventually the Dwarfs assigned as foremen decided their human labourers had done a passable, if shoddy, job.

* * *

As night fell over the manor and the stars came out, Sigmar went to the walls of their new shelter. Despite the possibility of attracting hostile attention, the men had built several fires to provide some kind of light and warmth for the physically and mentally exhausted soldiers.

A few sentries stood alert, peering out into the darkness of he surrounding woods and shielding their eyes from the fires to keep their night vision. Several Dwarfs also stood in positions, looking far less weary as they stood at unflinching attention and glowered into the forest.

Keeping quiet so as not to disturb those sleeping, he walked up to one of the rents in the wall and placed a hand on one of the wooden barricades that barred the way.

He stared into the forest, his eyes boring into the shadows between the trees, waiting for a sign that something was out there, whether it was friendly or not. The Drakwald was oppressively dark, the light of the torches and camp-fires seemingly being swallowed by the shadows of the trees. At the same time the forest was also unnaturally silent. No birds, animals or even less the natural beasts of the woods could be heard, as if something had emptied the forest of all life. Sigmar frowned at what was, yet another affliction, put upon his land by the trials of the End Times.

His eyes straying away from the woods, he once again looked to the stars. With every passing day since his return to the world they had become brighter to him. He could feel them and the influence they had on the world, the ways in which their powers revealed the paths of the future and the might he could call upon from them.

This night the shattered remains of Morrsleib were dim compared to the night before. There were still several bright fragments but most of the pieces were simply lying cold and dark, some fragments had even disappeared completely. Sigmar had no idea what exactly the broken Chaos Moon could now do, considering the baleful power that it had exerted over the mortal world when it had been whole. Daring to look into the centre of the cluster of fragments, Sigmar searched for the perverse sight he had seen at Middenheim.

Despite his best efforts, the writhing mass he had once seen squirm at the centre of the broken moon was not in evidence. Instead the remains of the moon lay still and dark.

* * *

The journey after the manor continued apace. The Men of the Reiksguard and the Dwarfs of the Zhufbarak continued to struggle down the remains of the Old Forest Road as they headed I the direction of Krudenwald. The rest and good feeling that a night in shelter of the ruined manor had given them had disappeared in the days since then and the fatigue of the long, drawn out march had returned.

No-one truly knew how far from Krudenwald they really were by this point. Every familiar landmark had been destroyed except for the road itself.

The scouts that went ahead of the column continued to report anything they could find but it seemed the further east and north they travelled the greater the destruction seemed to become. Soon the only evidence that man had built anything in the woods was reduced to the shattered remains of building foundations and the scattered fragments of ruins. Where once scattered inns, hamlets and manor houses had laid there were only endless banks of trees growing over one another and struggling against the boundaries of the road.

The next few nights were spent on the road itself, exposed but safe from the cloying grasp of the trees. Scouts no longer dared deviate from the path unless they were told to and whilst they all returned safe they kept talking about a feeling of eyes watching them.

It was on the fourth day of travel after leaving the manor that the scouts reported back claiming they had found Krudenwald. The city was ruined and abandoned but the remains were still there and relatively intact. There were also no signs of inhabitation by Beastmen, Marauders or Skaven. The news seemed to raise the morale of the column once more, with many men showing visible relief at the news.

The next few hours passed much more slowly as officers commanded their men to keep their regular pace and not tire themselves out in a rush to reach the remains of the settlement. Despite the reprimands from their leaders both the Men and the Dwarfs were heartened by the possibility of not sleeping in the shadows of the twisting trees of the woods.

The trees did not thin at all before the column ran into the outer walls. The gateway into Krudenwald had been battered down long ago and the stains of soot and the scars of axe, claw and proboscis scarred the moss covered stone. The optimistic atmosphere began to bleed away as the men marched through the gates and into the sodden husk of Krudenwald. Thankfully, whilst the thick vegetation of the woods outside had not overrun Krudenwald, the tight streets of the ruined city still forced an oppressive atmosphere on the column.

Scouts were sent ahead to ensure the streets were safe. After reports returned assuring the leadership of the column of the city's safety, the march began again. Like all cities of the Empire Krudenwald had a fortified district set aside for the urban estates of the aristocracy and rich merchants. Guard barracks were also often situated in these areas and would have to be secured.

The march through Krudenwald's streets was slow, the debris littering the roads and the threat of collapsing buildings on either side of the streets forcing the column to move carefully and slowly. Dwarfs immediately moved to test structures that showed signs of unsteadiness for the possibility of falling down. The journey through dilapidated city took the rest of the day and the sun was lower back over the horizon by the time the scouts led them to the gates of the district.

* * *

Sigmar felt ambivalent about his current situation. Like the rest of the column he was glad to be out of the forest's shadow and back under the shelter of a man-made structure, albeit one that had suffered heavy damage and wear. At the same time the destruction and decay visited upon Krudenwald had been incredibly disheartening to him, providing yet another example of the devastation visited upon his nation by the servants of Chaos.

The Men and Dwarfs of the column had occupied the barracks that was attached to the periphery of the elite district. The barracks were built to accommodate hundreds of men and easily held the column's reduced numbers. Sentries had been placed on the walls, barricades had been set at the shattered gate and the weak points in the wall that the Zhufbarak had pointed out. Finally, at Gotri Hammerson's insistence, the Dwarfs had used the final hours of twilight to demolish the buildings around the compound. His Dwarfs had systematically shattered the load-bearing supports of each structure and toppled them with methodical speed.

Now the men of the column slept more soundly than they had in weeks. Unlike the cursed ruins of Middenheim or the foreboding trees of the Drakwald, Krudenwald's ruins still felt familiar and natural.

Sleep, however, did not come so easily to the emperor. When he shut his eyes he dreamed of distant realms, of an endless lit by countless glittering stars, of a bright shining city situated in the heavens themselves that shone like a beacon.

On other nights he had seen what he was sure were portents of his future plans. He saw new settlements and castles sprout from the ruins of the Empire. Then, just as hope was renewed, they would be engulfed by flames. Armies of mutants, Beastmen, the walking dead and other foul monsters assaulted the land in a never ending parade of obscenity. Armies of valiant men rode to face them and fought courageously, bathing blood and fighting till their blades were dulled but still the foes came on in endless floods of pure evil.

Too often he had woken from these visions in a cold sweat, the sensations of his dreams too vivid, too real. The future was written in the heavens, the very power that was now a part of him.

The dreams were a sign, proof that his people would stand proud once again. Yet they were also warnings of the trials that would follow. Even in victory there would be no peace. The world was still a vile and dangerous place and he would have to work harder than ever before to safeguard his lands. Already he was formulating new designs. He would have to build a centre for his new empire. From there he could reconnect with any other survivors, build new settlements and strongholds and secure the lands of men.

Getting up from the cloak he had laid down on the floor of the barracks, he stood up and carefully walked out into the compound. He felt the chill air of Late Autumn brush over his face as he stepped out of the building and entered the open space. Most of his nights played out this way now. He would awaken from his increasingly vivid dreams and walk out into the open air. By now the men were fully aware of his behaviour and ignored him whenever they spotted him on sentry duty.

Looking up to the night sky he once again regarded the stars. Past the fragments of the Chaos Moon, which had once again changed the shape and placement of the chunks of warpstone, the stars shone bright in his eyes. When he looked at them he imagined he could see pictures, the portents of his dream once again appearing in his minds eye as he looked into the night sky.

Sighing, his breath steaming in front of his face, he shit his eyes and contemplated the images that still remained prominent in his thoughts.

War was inevitable, he knew that even before the dreams told him so. However, there was still hope. In his mind he had pictured a new capital for his empire and the visions in his mind had shown him that it could yet still rise. He had envisioned a shining beacon that mankind could rally around and he would build it. A light of order for all mankind.


	4. Chapter 4

**Leaving The Woods:**

 **The Great Forest, the banks of the River Talabec: (Autumn 2528 Imperial Calendar)**

Winter was coming, that much was clear to the Men and Dwarfs of the column. The weather hadn't changed that much since they had set out but the air and the rain that fell had grown chilled. The column had been travelling down the Old Forest Road since it swung slightly south, down to Hergig and the River Talabec beyond that. Whilst they had yet to find any other living being in the forest, they had found more ruins and signs of animal life the further they got away from Middenheim.

Hergig had been reduced to a sodden ruin like Krudenwald before it but had served as sufficient and defensible shelter for the exhausted Men and Dwarfs.

Despite the reprieve the former city had provided, the sight of yet another shattered metropolis had been somewhat depressing for the men of the Empire. The Dwarfs of the Zhufbarak remained far more stoic than the Men who marched alongside them but even they had seemed to become more dour and humourless as the days went by and the forest revealed even more devastation.

Now the column stood on the banks of the River Talabec, the river rushing by them. The Old Forest Road turned away at the riverbank, the somewhat ruined stones of the road ending completely with the exception of a portion that carried on to the west, following the river's course.

Sigmar took a deep breath as he watched his men set up camp on the riverbank. This was one of the few times they had been able to find clear land, free of the oppression of the trees. There as still plenty of debris, much of which had likely been washed ashore from further up the river. Most of what they had found was unusable but some driftwood had been carved, sharpened and set up to build walls of stakes. As before the Dwarfs had taken over the organisation of the camp, overseeing the Men as they erected tents, placed stakes and gathered whatever nearby materials were worth salvaging.

The scavenging that the column had done over the course of their journey had awarded them with enough materials to give them better equipment. Under the supervision of the Dwarfs usable scrap metals had been gathered and re-purposed for other uses. Proper canvas had been found for their tents and replacement weapons were now strapped at the sides of the ragtag survivors who walked at the rear of the column.

"Are you sure this is the best way to get downriver?" the familiar voice of Gotri Hammerson asked. The Runesmith had been invaluable to Sigmar as a source of advice and an assistant in managing the Dwarfs of the column.

"Going down river by raft will be quicker and easier than following the road," Sigmar replied. A day before the column had made it to the riverside he had proposed building simple craft that would carry them downriver.

"Aye, you do have a point," Gotri grumbled. "But I don't trust those waters and I don't trust riding down them in a flimsy wooden tub."

'I definitely understand how you feel,' Sigmar replied with a chuckle. 'But we don't want to be caught in the middle of these woods in winter and the longer we take, the less time we have to prepare.'

'So you still insist on making a new city?' Gotri asked. The Dwarf didn't betray any of his feelings but Sigmar knew the Runesmith felt some trepidation towards his plan.

'I do,' Sigmar replied plainly. He looked back at the Dwarf who gave him a look that hinted he expected more. Sigmar sighed a gave a good natured smile. 'I want to start again,' he began. 'I want to rebuild my nation but I want it to be what I had dreamed of so long ago when I first set about uniting the tribes. I've had to endure seeing everything I and my descendants built get torn down to the ground and ripped up from its foundations. Now that I have finally returned I have sworn to myself, my forefathers and the people who have put their faith in me to make a true Empire for all Men,' he paused for a moment, 'and your own kin too of course.'

'Aye,' Gotri conceded. 'I can respect that. You manlings have always been an odd lot but there's something I've always noticed about your kind. You certainly do dream big.'

'That we do,' Sigmar replied with a chuckle. 'When you live in the world that we do you have to dream. Seeking the light is what keeps the darkness at bay.'

* * *

The camp settled down for the night, assigning posts for sentries and keeping a watch on both the forest and the river. All the members of the column were finally able to sleep under a tent and had noticed a reduction in their nightly troubles as they slowly made their way south. Here, in the heart of the Empire and further away from the taint that saturated Middenheim, they had clearer heads and more peaceful dreams.

Every person in the camp was still on edge though. The oppressive feeling that had beaten down on them since they had entered the woods was weakened but still present. No-one knew what awaited them in the south. Many hoped that the beasts of Chaos had been routed from their lands altogether but others were concerned that the lack of Beastmen in the northern woods meant they had simply been pushed into the southern fields instead. These rumours and speculations had of course been quashed by stern officers and the dour Dwarfs who disapproved of such defeatist ideas but the aura of trepidation and fear was still there.

Sigmar watched the stars as he had every night since Middenheim. He tried to read the stories and visions that the twinkling lights told him. His own dreams were a jumble of horrors and triumphs, shifting an changing as the countless possibilities of the future tried to assert themselves. The emperor smiled despite his confusion as every new vision told him, once again, that there was in fact a future.

* * *

While the men slept, Hermann Schreiber was away from the camp. In the weeks since he had left Middenheim he had been restless. Rather than grow weak or tired by the long monotonous march he had grown stronger. Winter was coming and he knew the season's approach was the reason for his new-found vitality.

He was currently stalking through the woods around the camp. He had woken shortly after the rest of his group had fallen asleep and had sneaked out of the camp, sleeking past the sentries as if he was invisible. Though he had difficulty understand whatever power was inside him he knew that there was something otherworldly that now resided inside of him. He also knew he was being changed by it. With every passing day he felt his mind becoming more wild. He needed to enter the woods, walk amongst the trees and stalk the few living things he could find in the surrounding forests.

This night, however, he felt that the compulsion that had driven him was different from the usual instincts. This time the power was looking for something.

He weaved between the trees with a grace and ease that he never remembered having before as the feeling in the back of his head guided him. The light of Mannsleib shone down through the canopy in a way that he had never seen before in his life as he approached whatever the power inside him wanted him to reach. He followed the light as surely as the power did, seeking it out. He was marvelled by the moonlight which seemed to be stronger and purer than at any other point in his life.

It was almost a shock when he left a the thick trees and entered a massive clearing. The area was wild but the way in which the trees circled the copse and the lack of smaller bushes and scrub indicated that something had deliberately made this place.

Hermann wandered into the copse, suddenly unsure of what he was looking for. The feeling that had driven him here was now satisfied and didn't coax him in any particular direction. He breathed more heavily as he looked about the clearing, wondering just what the power inside him had wanted here.

It was then that he suddenly felt a new presence in the clearing. Hermann spun around as he saw a figure enter the copse and stand straight and tall. Hermann's eyes widened as he saw the largest stag he had ever seen in his life walk in. He vaguely remembered the mighty and majestic beasts that some of the Elves had ridden to war but this great creature was beyond compare. It towered over him and possessed a regal dignity and a wild and divine power that threatened to overwhelm him. Hermann could almost see a brilliant intelligence in its eyes as they regarded him.

Suddenly the stag shone, a bright and glaring light filling the clearing. Hermann winced and shut his eyes, warding the blinding light away with his hands. When the light gradually faded away, Herman lowered his hands again to see what had happened.

Where the stag had stood was a massive man. Like the beast it had replaced, the figure towered over him and possessed a wildness and divine dignity that humbled Hermann instantly. The man was covered in animal furs and skins and had a long tangled beard and wild hair. However what drew Hermann's attention the most was the pair of long stag antlers that grew out of the crown of the man's head.

"So," the figure spoke in a loud, rich voice that sounded like the roar of a raging storm. "Though art the mortal man who hast inherited mine brother's mantle?"

Hermann could barely say a word as he felt the words wash over him. He could barely understand what he was feeling. It was if he was facing the very world itself and that it was looking past his being and studying his soul like a predator stalking its prey.

"Do not speak," the figure said. "You stand before Taal, Lord of Nature and master of these lands. Thou art the inheritor of a great power, stewardship of the season of winter and the duties that mine brother once upheld. However, though thou hast been chosen for the task, thou art not yet worthy."

Taal spread his arms as he still looked down on Hermann. "Thou shalt leave these men and enter my realm that surrounds you now in thine entirety. Thou art needed for these lands to heal but thou must also cast away thine trappings of mortal life."

Hermann had no idea what to think about what he had just been told. The power within him was reacting, broiling and churning within his body. He had no idea what to think about its reaction to the god's words. If he threw his life away and fled into the woods, what did await him? What were these duties?

"Thine tasks await thee," Taal suddenly spoke, as if he had read his mind. "Thou shalt understand once the winter season arrives." Taal once again raised his arms. "Go," the god commanded. "Enter the woods and embrace thine gifts and duties."

Hermann felt the pressure of the god's presence slowly fade as another flash of light engulfed the clearing. Once again, he turned his head and raised his arms to ward off the blinding glare. When the light faded away, Hermann looked back and saw that Taal was gone.

Hermann's breath was heavy as he tried to recover from what he had experienced. The power within him was still moving inside his body. He could feel it grow impatient, as if it was demanding he do what Taal had just commanded. Hermann tried to ponder what he had just been told to do but his objections and speculations were quashed by the power within him. He wanted to stay, to at least think about what he could do but the new divine mission was compelling him to leave and flee into the woods.

His breath frosting despite the weather only being cool, Hermann turned back to the direction that Taal had emerged from and walked forward. He passed out of the clearing and back into the woods. As he weaved through the trees he began to pick up his pace. His walk quickly turned into a jog and then into a run. As he sped through the forest the began to use his hands to help carry him along. Wherever his hands and feet touched a thin layer of frost was left behind.

Soon, he was sprinting through the woods, occasionally falling onto all fours and loping ahead. Hermann Schreiber disappeared into the dense woodlands of Talabecland and never once looked back to see the slowly melting trail of frost that he was leaving behind.

* * *

The camp was buzzing with activity as the Men and Dwarfs prepared for the next part of the plan. That morning officers had woken their troops with new orders. Once again Men had gone to the edge of the woods to cut down trees. Now however, they were being ordered to fashion them into straight logs. Dwarfs were pulling items from the scrap they had been carrying and moved them to a crude forge they had set up. Already their smiths were hammering away at the metal, fashioning them into simple pegs and nails.

The plan called for rafts and simple boats and though they could have simple lashed planks and logs together, Gotri and his Dwarfs had insisted on constructing the vessels properly. Already the industrious Dwarfs were organising their human comrades in picking the best lumber they could gather and fashion to make the hulls, judging the material with their race's traditional exacting scrutiny.

With saws and other tools salvaged from the ruins of Hergig, the men were starting to make planks from the trees they had felled. A simple keel had been laid for a large, wide-hulled boat that would handle carrying the supplies they still had. Some of the Men were talking about fishing the river as they travelled down it to catch food rather than waste time landing and waiting for foraging parties.

Sigmar grunted as he hauled one of the heavy logs his men had cut into place. He had insisted he take part in the labour, wanting to join his men and aid in speeding along the construction. His log ended up on the pile of finished lumber that he and his men had been denuding of branches and cut into a rough shape. It was more lumber than the existing number of hulls needed but the Dwarfs wanted a stockpile of surplus.

Under Dwarf supervision and direction the work was going much more quickly than it normally would. Like the deceptively simple defences around the camp, the Dwarfs had undertaken their tasks with an almost inhuman meticulousness and efficiency.

Picking up another log that had been stripped and shaped by other men, Sigmar hauled it over to the pile with another man helping him. He had stripped off his ornate armour and was now dressed in breaches and an under-shirt that had been stained long ago with blood, mud and smears of green from a variety of vegetation. Without his armour, Sigmar felt both vulnerable and bizarrely liberated. There was something profound about performing such labour amongst his people without any finery or weighted clothing.

"Franz," the gruff voice of Gotri Hammerson said. Sigmar turned to see the stout figure of the dour runesmith march through the workcamp. "I need you over here."

Sigmar finished placing his log on the pile and patted his hands, brushing off dirt and bark as he approached the venerable Dwarf.

"What is it?" he said in a serious tone, matching the Dwarf's expression.

"Not here," Hammerson replied curtly and indicated for Sigmar to follow him, his face not betraying his emotions.

The two leaders walked through the camp, Sigmar occcasionally stopping to give attention to the men of the column. Whether it was a small nod, a smile or even a brief handshake, the men appreciated it and responded with greater effort and enthusiasm in their work.

"So what is it you wanted to tell me?" Sigmar said as they approached the riverbank.

"I sent a foraging party into the forest two hours ago," Hammerson replied, his face still unchanging but his eyes revealing the importance of what he was saying. "They reported back with no food but they said that they felt that they were being watched."

"Were they?" Sigmar asked, also keeping a composed expression on his face.

"They never saw anything but Dawi do not lie about these things," Hammerson replied. "This forest's been too empty as it is. If my men notice something in these woods the chances are it is unnatural."

"I understand," Sigmar replied. He had a vague idea of what it could be. The power of Ulric had disappeared from their camp the previous night but there were still remnants of the winter god's essence in the surrounding woodlands. He didn't, however, know just what had been left behind by the vestigial remains of the god. "We should be more cautious about what we do in those woods. It's likely that the inhabitants are returning."

"Aye," Hammerson replied, nodding in understanding.

"How much longer do you estimate the boats will take?" Sigmar then asked, wanting to change the topic of the conversation.

"If your men keep shaping logs the way they are we'll be finished in another five days,' Hammerson replied with a grunt of annoyance. "If I had a few more of my lads we'd get it done in three but I'll have to make do."

Sigmar chuckled. "I think we could all do with more men. At the very least we'd have a few more hands for foraging."

"Aye," Hammerson agreed in a grudging tone.

The conversation ended after that. Both leaders had nothing left to say and instead stood and looked across the river into the forest beyond. Sigmar wanted to rejoin the men but he knew that he could see something in the forest. As he peered into the trees he saw the lines of magic shift. His sight could now see beyond the veil of the world, revealing the powers that flowed over them. It was almost impossible to describe the shapes and colours that appeared before him when he used this sight but they were beautiful and imposing at the same time.

In his eyes, the trees were saturated in unnatural blotches of colour that appeared similar to frost. It surrounded them, spreading around their camp and over the river to the woodlands beyond. Ulric was free in the forests of the Empire and he was marking this land as his.

* * *

After five days of hard and strenuous labour, a collection of simple but incredibly sturdy boats now waited on the edge of the river. Some were rafts made form the logs that the men had stripped but a large number were wide, low-hulled boats that were built to carry people. Despite their simple design they were well built, the planks fitted together almost seamlessly thanks to Dwarfen meticulousness and precision.

Already the Men and Dwarfs of the column were loading supplies on the boats and rafts and securing them with thick rope and the spare tarps. The plan was to put the supply rafts in the middle of the convoy and pull them along by attaching ropes to the other boats being powered by oarsmen.

Boats were being pushed into the water, the Men and Dwarfs hauling them off the bank climbing in and bragging oars that had been carved the day before. Others were pushing the rafts up to the water and into the river.

Sigmar got behind one of the boats, once again dressed in his armour, and helped heave it into the river. One of the rafts had been attached to his boat with thick ropes which made the load even heavier but he and those who had been assigned to the boat with him put all their strength into moving it. Eventually the vessel slid into the water and came to a halt, held in place by half of the team responsible for pushing it off of the bank. The rest of the group, Sigmar included, then went to aid in moving the supply raft. The work was arduous but the men eventually managed to float the raft.

One by one the boats and rafts were floated into the river and held in place. Men struggled to keep the currents from sweeping their new craft away and anchors were crafted from rocks and rope to keep the new flotilla of simple craft in place.

"Alright men," Sigmar said, a proud, almost boyish smile on his face, "Everyone aboard. It won't be much longer now. The river will take us to our destination."

There was a cheer as his men began to loud themselves onto the bats that various officers had allocated them to. The Dwarfs, distrustful of travelling by boat, were a lot slower and many of them grumbled as they stripped themselves of their weighty armour so they could safely wade to the boats set aside for them.

Climbing aboard his own boat, he grabbed an oar and waited for the last of the column to prepare themselves. It took longer than he had hoped for everyone to finally finish settling onto their vessels and get everything ready for their departure. Still, they were eventually ready and with the sun now high overhead, he gave the order to begin paddling. Tentatively, the flotilla, every boat roped together for safety, began to move forward. Under the direction of officers and whatever experienced oarsmen were already in the group, the pace increased and eventually, the flotilla set down the Talabec.

* * *

For several weeks Sylvania, the land of the dead, had played hosts to great numbers of the living. Humans from the Empire, Tilea and the former Border Princes had fled here, seeking any refuge from the armies of Chaos that had ravaged the land. Alongside them were the Halflings from the Moot and even a few Dwarfs and Ogres. All of them had come to Sylvania because in a world descending into unremitting anarchy and horror, the personal lands of the Great Necromancer and his foul subjects had become a beacon of order.

At first they had merely gathered in the borderlands, sure that they were simply escaping a horrible death at the hands of Chaos by ensuring they would die at the hands of the restless dead. However instead they had found themselves left untouched. As they thought the dead had risen to butcher the living, but only when they were in service to Chaos.

Sylvania's new, bizarre and oxymoronic reputation as a land of safety was cemented when a column of refugees from Averland was rescued from a Khornate warband by a vast host of exotically dressed skeletons. The berserkers had been torn apart whilst the Empire citizens had been left alone. Of course it was difficult to spread the news as only the mad or the foolish were willing to leave to try and find other survivors and guide them to safety but soon enough people were heading to Sylvania, a land free of the threat of Chaos.

Of course this sanctuary was a temporary one and it was soon about to disappear.

Nagash's journey back to his stronghold had been a long and humiliating one. When he had departed Sylvania it had been at the head of an army the likes of which had never been witnessed before. The dead had came when he called, grimly regal Morghasts had surrounded him and his Mortarchs, undead creatures only second to himself in power, had relayed orders as he wished. Now he was alone, the best he could summon to march beside him were the remains of the rabble that had inhabited the surrounding lands and his powers, whilst recovering at a rapid rate, were still severely weakened when compared to what he used to command.

Still, none of this prevented the necrotic giant that was now the Great Necromancer from carrying himself with the usual arrogance that he presented to others.

Nagash did not walk upon the land, finding such an action to now be beneath him. Instead he travelled through the ruins of Stirland as a great cloud of darkness. Though sustaining such a spell continued to drain his reserves of power, Nagash's pride made it impossible for him to even consider resting or simply walking.

Despite his exerting spellwork, Nagash's powers were rapidly recovering with every passing day. When he had left the ruins of Middenheim he had been a weakened shadow of himself, barely able to conceal his presence from the other, equally weakened, incarnates. Now he was returning to the form he had become accustomed to in the past few years since his resurrection. His form was once again wreathed in an otherworldly darkness that made his impressive, godlike stature all the more intimidating. His unnatural presence was also beginning to affect the land around him once again. The dead that lay in his path were becoming restless. Though none of them ever truly rose to false life unless he exerted himself he noticed that the many corpses that were strewn across the ruined land began to twitch whenever he drew close to them.

Nagash never once slowed his progress, continuing through the wrecked remains of the Eastern Empire. He could feel the Death Magic that permeated Sylvania drawing him like a beacon. It was an intrinsic part of him and called to him with an intensity he could never truly deny. Though most of the power had either been absorbed into his body or dissipated by the infuriating actions of the followers of Chaos and the foul Skaven it still remained, leached into the earth of the cursed province, waiting to be drawn out once again. With the power of Chaos receding Nagash did not feel the need to hasten his apotheosis like he had before. Now he was free to draw in the power that was rightfully his without fear of interference by any other power. Chaos had been beaten and had retreated to lick its wounds whilst the meagre mortal forces of order were now too few in number and too exhausted to assault him in his stronghold.

Nagash had ignored the passage of day and night as he continued to billow over the land. The time it took to return to Sylvania did not matter to him. All that he cared about was the progress he made. Once he was within the lands he had claimed as his own, surrounded by the very power that sustained him, he would rest.

The burnt and sodden remains of villages, towns and castles of all shapes and sizes passed by him as he flew past them. He also passed by the evidence of the depravaties of the End Times. Foul altars to Chaos built from the remains of buildings and the victims of Chaos' predations dotted the land. The remains of Herdstones that had been destroyed to summon the Garden of Nurgle years before could also be found here and there in the Drakwald. Heedless of the destruction around him Nagash bypassed them all and continued on his way. His skeletal and armoured feet never once touched the ground as he carried himself closer to his goal. Occasionally some kind of threat, whether it was a band of Greenskins, a party of Chaos followers or an unfortunate group of surviving humans, would cross his path and would subsequently be obliterated by him as he passed them by with barely a thought.

It was only when the desolate hills of Sylvania and the powerful waves of magical power that saturated them were in his sight that he slowed. He was eager to once again enter the borders of his realm but now, with so much power around him, he was no longer as vulnerable as he had been for the past few days. He could feel his strength increasing exponentially as he drew in the power of death that now surrounded him. The darkness that surrounded his form grew thicker and darker, plunging the area around him into a pitch blackness that no light could penetrate.

He noticed his absence had allowed the eternal night that had wreathed his realm from the sun to thin, no doubt a result of tapping the magic that sustained it during his battles elsewhere. It was a simple matter of reinforcing the spell with the power that once again freely flowed through his being. With barely a gesture the clouds that had filled the sky and covered the land in a thin shadow thickened and billowed, turning darker than any storm-cloud and broiling with an intensity that verged on unnatural. With that one act Nagash had reaffirmed his control over Sylvania and announced to all within its bleak borders that the rightful master of the benighted land had returned.

* * *

Neferata had not enjoyed her time as regent of Sylvania. After being unceremoniously summoned from the Silver Pinnacle the Vampire Queen had found her new position to be distasteful enough to almost be considered humiliating. What's more, as the one now responsible for keeping the Undead Legions in check, she had been forced to contend with the bruised egos of the remaining Tomb Kings of Nehekhara.

Aware that she would be staying the province for the duration of her master's mission, Neferata had decided to make Drakenhof Castle her base of operations. The fortress was grim, bedraggled and soaked in the disgusting image of the Von Carstein lineage but it was also the traditional centre of Sylvanian power and Neferata had decided that if she was going to rule the land she would do it in the proper fashion. Also as detestable as the fortress was, it was also the finest seat of residence in all of Sylvania.

Under the guidance of her handmaidens the dead in and around Drakenhof had laboured constantly to return the castle to an acceptable state of habitability. Repairs had been made to the sections Neferata and her handmaidens wished to use for their own purposes, the defences had been reinforced and the interiors had been tidied and cleansed of the last of the rot and dust that had started to return in Mannfred's absence. Unwilling to anger the Von Carsteins beyond what she deemed necessary, Neferata had left the Von Carstein portraits and busts that filled the halls and corridors alone.

The ranks of her handmaidens had been thinned by the trials and tribulations of the End Times and Neferata had worked to find suitable replacements to replenish her ranks. Most had been taken from amongst the refugees that now cowered on the outskirts of Sylvania. Neferata did not particularly care for the mortals who had fled into the domain of the dead and found the task of dealing with so many freshly turned vampires to be rather frustrating but she tolerated the presence of both. The mortals presence did not impede any of the duties she begrudgingly performed and so she left them alone. Of course she did not necessarily try to protect them from the predations of the other vampires that called Sylvania home but the sheer disruption a blood-drunk vampire could cause to the order she enforced had eventually led to her reining them in and leaving the mortals alone.

She been reclining on the rather obscene throne that dominated the main chamber of the fortress when she felt a wave of power wash over her.

In an almost unrefined display of concern Neferata quickly rose from her seat and left the chamber. Her handmaidens, noticing her movements, scrambled to follow her, none of the thankfully noticing the signs that hinted their mistress was upset.

She finally made it to one of the rooms that had a balcony leading outside. As always the oppressive gloom that had cloaked Sylvania for years remained. However Neferata had noticed in the past few months that the darkness had thinned somewhat. She knew that it had something to do with Nagash, the Great Necromancer's power now held the overcast skies in place and anything that happened to it would be his doing. Neferata had often wondered – and secretly hoped - whether the turning weather was the result of Nagash experiencing some kind of slow demise.

Suddenly the billowing clouds grew thicker. A wave of darkness swept through the blanket of storm-clouds that shrouded the land, absorbing and expanding them. The black pall that glowered overhead turned darker than it had been for weeks, returning Sylvania to the eternal night that it's residents had grown accustomed to.

Deep down inside herself Neferata quivered. Though she never let even a hint of her fear show she knew without a doubt that Nagash had survived. Not only that but he had also finally returned. Turning towards her handmaidens who had all gathered at a respectable distance from her, she sought out the highest ranking amongst their number. It barely took her a moment for eyes to fall upon Imentet. First amongst her handmaidens, the Lahmian vampiress had fought by her side throughout the End Times, weathering the worst that the end of the world had thrown at her and her mistress. Their eyes met and an unspoken command passed between them. Without a word Imentet stepped forward and bowed her head.

"Imentet," the Vampire Queen said in an authoritative voice.

"Yes my Queen" the handmaiden replied questioningly. Imentet was the closest any of Neferata's own get would be to trustworthy and had served her faithfully for centuries. With Naaima elsewhere, seeing to the running of Sylvania, she had been forced to make do with the former Nehekharan woman. Neferata knew that whatever she ordered Imentet would execute it with due diligence and skill, the rewards that were offered to her were too great to not do so.

"Ready Nagadron," Neferata said, the power and suggestion in her voice adding weight to the command, "our great lord Nagash has returned to this land and has announced his might to us all. He would expect us to receive him and it is only proper that we oblige his wishes."

With that the entire assortment of vampires ran to attend to their mistresses commands. Imentet immediately began laying order on top of the chaos as she issued instructions to the fledgling vampiresses at her command. Throughout it all Neferata retained her regal and collected mask. However, beneath the dignified expression on her face, she struggled to make sure no other soul would notice the anger and distaste she felt towards the entire situation. Nagash was still alive and his powers were still evident. She would remain shackled to him and his foul will and there seemed to be little that could change that. The near destruction of the world had failed to end his existence so what was there now that could accomplish such a feat.

Neferata left the balcony and made her through Drakenhof Castle. She made her way back through the serried galleries and corridors, ignoring the route to the main chamber and instead heading straight for the courtyard.

The open area was a paved square ringed by a crumbling wall of rotten brick. Thankfully the boundaries were not connected to the castle's sturdy stone curtain walls and therefore they had been left to crumble without concern. Ruined stables had been rebuilt in order to house the Hellsteeds that Neferata's handmaidens had ridden on their way to the Sylvania. The undead constructs did not need food or shelter but appearances were everything and Neferata expected her servants to be serviced in the traditional manner of all aristocrats.

Drakenhof Guard manned the walls, their comparatively well maintained halberds and worn tabards marking the distinguished Grave Guard as the elite guardians of the Von Carstein's home. Lesser skeletons filled the courtyard, shuffling back and forth as they carried materials for the repairs back and forth. Others saw to the Hellsteeds whilst under the careful instruction of Neferata's handmaidens.

Dominating the centre of the courtyard, surrounded by skeletal attendants that handled the beast, was Nagadron, the Adavore, Neferata's personal Dread Abyssal. The massive mythical creature was dog-like in appearance but only barely. It's body was skeletal, composed of armoured plates that gave it its animal form. Beneath its carapace were countless ethereal skulls, straining beneath the armour plates. They were the remains of the souls the gluttonous divine beast had devoured over the millennia. Its armoured form was reinforced by plated barding that was as unnatural as the rest of its body. Finally the Dread Abyssal was crowned by a deep red mask that covered is head, leaving only its tooth lined maw free to move at will.

To Neferata's satisfaction the handlers had already strapped the throne she sat upon when she rode Nagadron on its back and had readied the reins and caparison for her as well.

Wordlessly she approached the monstrous beast, the handlers parting without conscious instruction. The Adavore lazily inclined its head in her direction, studying her from behind its mask. The creature was more intelligent than its brutish appearance would suggest and its nature as an opportunistic ambush predator meant that it had an instinct for assessing rivals, threats and prey. Neferata, however, was none of these, she was it's master and it respectfully kept its position as she clambered up its armoured side and onto the throne on is back.

Once she had settled down on the high-backed chair she scanned the courtyard. Her retinue were all bringing their Hellsteads to the centre of the courtyard. Some were already mounted whilst others preferred to lead their mounts into position before seating themselves on their backs.

Neferata straightened herself in her saddle and eyed her retinue, making sure they too were prepared to depart. None of them had packed any of the supplies a human traveller would have brought. Such things were unnecessary now, even the mortal retainers they used to keep close to feed off of were no loner needed, the power of Shyish flowed directly through them, rejuvenating their bodies.

"Fly," Neferata said in an imperious tone. The command was an unconscious action. The Dread Abyssal did not need to hear her voice to know what she desired but even after several millennia Neferata found some of the habits of mortal life had not escaped her.

At her command the Dread Abyssal crouched down, ethereal muscles coiling before it launched itself into the sky. The unnatural beast had no wings or other discernible methods of flight. Instead it ran upon the Winds of Magic as assuredly as any predator would on the ground. It's claws found purchase in the open air and with an otherworldly grace it pulled itself high into the sky.

The flap of rotten pinions informed Neferata that her handmaidens had also taken off. Gripping the reins whilst feeding directions into Nagadron's mind, the Vampire Queen guided the creature north. Her retinue adjusted their courses with her, acting almost like a flock of massive disgusting birds as they moved with one mind.

The entire flock of undead creatures aligned themselves to the north. The wave of power and the broiling clouds of pure darkness had both come from that direction, indicating where Nagash was arriving from.

Her course now set, Neferata once again reflected on her situation as Nagadron bound through the air. Nagash was back, he had recovered at least enough of his power to reinforce the flagging spell of eternal darkness and return it to its full strength. The sheer amount of Death Magic that saturated Sylvania would only serve to make Nagash even stronger, ensuring his place in the morbid kingdom once again. Neferata made sure none of her concern showed on her face as she considered her options. Once again there was no chance of escaping the Great Necromancer and no chance of profiting in the new world without bowing to his will. If she fled or abandoned him she would likely be hunted down and destroyed, too many Mortarchs had turned on Nagash and each of the traitors was now dead. She imagined that this time Nagash would not be so foolish or forgiving as to leave his servants to kill the traitors to his cause. This time any dissent would be punished by him personally.

As Neferata flew through the air, her arrayed handmaidens around her, she came to one clear realisation. With Nagash's return everything was about to, once again, become so much more difficult for her.

* * *

Isabella Von Carstein stumbled around in a confused fashion. For weeks now she had wandered back and forth over the land, lost and blind to the world around her.

The Von Carstein Ring had resurrected her from true death and purged the Daemon's taint from her body. However the experience was jarring and the denial of Chaos' power had been torture for her mind. She had woken shortly after the end of the brutal battle at Middenheim and had drunkenly made her way out of the ruined city, unnoticed by the exhausted mortal armies that remained. She had witnessed the dissolution of the Everchosen's legions as she joined them in flight.

In that time she had been unable to speak, unable to make a sound other than the ragged cries that occasionally escaped her throat. Her mind still felt the remaining stains of Bolorog's taint and it was a splinter in her mind, a corruption that not even the Von Carstein Ring's properties could completely remove. She could feel the splinter, a dagger of pain coursing through her brain that drove her on. She refused to cry out from the endless aching, grinding her teeth together even as her fangs began to slide out from their unnatural sheaths.

She couldn't remember the last time she had fed. The unholy power of Nurgle had sustained her and kept her strong before and she now felt the power of Nagash doing the same. However the Red Thirst still flowed through her and the quiet agony she subjected herself to only made it stronger.

"D'ya hear that," a voice cut through the forest, startling Isabella. She had been so preoccupied by the pain in her mind and the direction-less confusion that had engulfed her ever since her liberation that she had never truly paid attention to her surroundings.

"For fucks sake keep yer voice down," another voice followed after the first one. It was quieter than the first but to the vampire's ears there was barely any difference. Now that Isabella was paying attention the voices of whoever she had stumbled across were practically shouting at one another.

"What?" the first voice said, indignation clear in its tone, "I heard somethin in the trees. Don't tell me ya didn't notice?"

I did notice," the second voice replied. " I also remembered." he continued in a patronising tone, "that if ya hear a noise in the Drakwald it's usually somethin bad so keep yer fuckin voice down or we'll both be dead."

Isabella crouched down low, slowing slinking through the under-brush as she moved in the direction of the voices. In this day and age the chances were that whoever travelled the Drakwald was some kind of Chaos touched filth, the kind of monster who's blood would be too corrupted for her to feed on. However the voices she had heard spoke with the local accent, identifying them as men of the Empire. Unless they had consigned their souls to the Dark Gods recently they might also be survivors. Whoever they were they weren't that smart.

Lowering herself further she moved through the under-brush of the forest. She couldn't remember the last time she had to hunt in such an undignified fashion but she was desperate and it was all she could do to keep from immediately charging at the nearby humans and tearing them apart like one of the savage Varghulfs.

Though the foliage around her barely thinned at all Isabella realised she was nearing a path. Her senses, once clouded by the remnants of Bolorog's taint, were now sharp and aware of everything around her. The almost unidentifiable stench of the Drakwald was now mixed with the heady smell of the nearby humans. She could practically hear their heartbeats and the blood pumping through their veins and their clumsy footfalls were now loud thuds that she was embarrassed to have missed prior to this point.

Her eyes narrowed as she finally found the break in the trees. Like with most pathways and clearings in the Drakwald, the change from dense foliage to open space was abrupt and surprising, only those who had lived in the forest all of their lives would ever fail to be shocked by the sudden shift.

The road was little more than a dirt track, probably cut through the trees long ago and simply maintained by frequent traffic by the lower orders of the Empire. The travails that had struck the Old World meant that even this simple roadway was looking untended and run down. The fresh growth of the Drakwald was creeping in on the edges and great branches clawed down from the canopy, seeking to block the path from above. The ground had turned to mud long ago thanks to frequent rain, leaving a cloying mess for any traveller to get caught in, no carts or other vehicles would be taking this way for long time.

Finally she spotted the two men. They were definitely people of the Empire, whatever that meant now that the Empire was dead. Of course they rugged and worn, their clothes were rags, their hair and beards were unshaven and the only things they possessed that remained in relatively good condition were their weapons, meagre swords and spears.

Isabella's face lit up in anticipation even as she wrinkled her noise at their disgusting smell. Humans were normally unwashed and stinking but this pair were fouler than most.

Making no sound as she sneaked up on her prey, Isabella could feel her claws coming out of their sheaths. Her fangs did the same, transforming her into a horrific monster, a predator, a hunter of mortal men.

She leapt onto one of them men, moving faster than their eyes could see. Her fangs latched onto the side of the man's throat and dug into his flesh. The man screamed as he felt the unbearable pain lancing through his body. Isabella, meanwhile, felt a rush of ecstasy as the hot blood of her victim flowed into her mouth. She drained him quickly, greedily feeding off of him as he expired. The second man screamed in fear and ran, abandoning his companion. Seeing her prey fleeing before her, and with the Red Thirst still running strong through her body and mind she ran the helpless mortal down. Isabella grabbed the man's arm, crushing the bones in his wrist as her claws grasped at his flesh. Like her previous victim she dug her fangs into the man's neck and slaked her thirst on the blood the flowed out.

Isabella dropped the remains of the man as the violent bloodlust began to fade away. The Red Thirst calmed by her feeding, she could even feel the remnants of Bolorog's taint ebb from her mind. The fresh blood still flowing through her body, Isabella felt invigorated. She could finally notice the draw of the powers of Shyish. The Wind of Death was calling to her from it's epicentre, Sylvania, her family's former demesne.

Isabella picked herself up and angled herself in the direction of Sylvania. The magic in her body was calling to her like a beacon and she had no reason to deny it. Now strengthened and with a much clearer mind she strode forward with confidence and purpose. She once again left the road, returning to the thick tangling mass of the Drakwald which she picked her way through with ease and grace.

She was going to return to her home.


End file.
